Elf
by unlikely2
Summary: Dobby borrows Death's horse in order to return through time and rescue Harry from the Dursleys.
1. death

Harry Potter inherited the cloak. He was given the stone. The wand he achieved by conquest.

Far, far away an anthropomorphic personification sat up straight. Something had shifted in the force. Something had happened, not strictly in his demesne but still . . .

After the horrors of the first world war a Welsh poet had written a poem he'd called "And Death shall have no Dominion". Many people felt better for reading it. Ideas gained mindspace. What this meant in practice was that, if there was no dominion, then there weren't any boundaries. He could go anywhere he damn well pleased.

So, he went.

Death arrived, climbed down from his pale horse and performed his duty.

Vital cord cut, a small form sat, arms clasped around his knees upon the sand, watching mournfully. Storms far out had sea had formed great waves that broke along the shore. Somewhere overhead a gull cried, mournful and raucous. Power grew. No daisies here, just a young wizard blinded by tears and blowing sand and digging, by hand, a grave for a friend and wishing. Wishing that Dobby had not died.

Harry Potter was master of no death other than his own and yet Death wished that he could, somehow, he could have helped such a boy.

'Here lies Dobby, a free elf.' Harry's first truly considered act after uniting the Hallows. Even the stone wished.

Angels, of which Death was one, don't break the rules, however, given sufficient motivation, some bending may occur. As Harry pulled himself upright and staggered off, Death saw that his mount had gone.

In the brightness high above the clouds, Dobby peered down from the horse's back. 'Yous can go anywhere?' he queried.. The horse's ear twitched dismissively. 'How about anywhen?' Dobby could see that he had the creature's attention. Leaning forward, he whispered into its ear. Somewhere over Wiltshire, they trotted down into the clouds.

In a cupboard in Malfoy Manor, a house elf wished for death. Scant moments of exchange and an open doorway. Younger Dobby passed on laughing, in his place himself but not, older Dobby pulled power into himself to repair the damage and began to plot.

In a cupboard, Harry Potter his friend was hurting with fear. That should be fixed.

* * *

Should not have written this. The bunny got away from me. Revised for clarity.


	2. cake

Dudley Dursley was dissatisfied.

It had been a rubbish day. He'd told his mum he didn't like Hyacinth but he had to go anyway because of the bridge club. He'd known the party would be boring. All girly. And she'd got all the fuss and presents. Then they'd had to watch that awful girly film. Although he liked the bity things on sticks. He'd enjoy yelling 'Nippy nippy nip nip' while using one on the freak. And the 'bog of eternal stench' had given him an idea.

He'd got rid of a few things but the ragdoll he'd found in the window of the downstairs loo wouldn't go down no matter how many times he flushed and poo had come out all over the floor. While Hyacinth's parents were trying to fix it, he'd got on her new bike and ridden it into the dolls house and broken the front off. Hyacinth's parents had been quite snippy when he left. There wasn't anything good in the goody bag either. He had been told to save the cake for later but why would he do that? There would always be more cake. Now he was thirsty. The coke had gone and he'd already thrown the bottle at his mum. He was too hot as well. The second the car stopped he undid his seatbelt and got out. Heading for the fridge he shrugged one arm out of his coat and then there was banana milk, cold and fresh and only for him.

'Boy! Clean that up,' said his mum. A long streak of brown ran from the doorway to where his coat hung from his arm. He thought he'd missed some of the icing. Saying nothing, his cousin got a cloth. His mum helped him out of his coat and put it on the table. Then she went upstairs. 'Dance magic dance,' sang Dudley Dursley running forward to see if he couldn't launch the freak into the air. The other boy shot backwards leaving Dudley to kick at nothing and then he was flat on his back with his tailbone hurting and all the breath knocked out of him.

As soon as he did get his breath back, of course, he complained and his mother sent the freak straight to his cupboard, not even waiting for him to finish cleaning up. Now he was really in trouble.

When his dad got home his mum told him how the beastly freak had tripped him up and his dad had started to go pink and breathe heavily but when he opened the cupboard door no one was there.

* * *

Here I tried for funny but, in truth, his parents have done Dudley no favours: it's horrific.


	3. wardobe

Harry sat on the rough, age darkened wood of the floor and worried. He was away from the Dursleys and that was good but the little grey-green alien that had brought him here, and appeared to have been in some sort of dreadful accident, had collapsed immediately upon arrival. He would have expected a spaceship not the ghostly shapes of dust-sheet shrouded furniture surrounding him. Overhead the beams of the angled roof made cracking sounds as the structure cooled. At intervals, small windows showed the sky It was getting dark. Harry wanted to help the alien but was too afraid to touch it for fear of hurting it further. The creature's breathing hitched and Harry looked down to discover that the bulbous eyes had opened and were gazing at him with an expression of what looked curiously like love. 'Harry Potter,' it croaked.

'Yes, I'm Harry. You're hurt. What can I do to help?'

'Share magic,' it said. Or that's what is sounded like. But there was no such thing as magic except . . . One small, bruised hand was extended towards him. Gently, Harry took it in his own deciding that he would do anything he could.

'I wish you were better.' Sudden light flared from the joined hands, coiled up their arms and into their chests where it brightened again before fading. The cuts and bruised that had covered the smaller body had not gone completely but they were no longer so raw looking.

The alien sat up. 'Dobby thanks Harry Potter sir for his gift and for his friendship,' it said.

'You're Dobby?'

'Yes. Dobby is a house elf. House elves are servants to wizards and witches mostly. Dobby is different. He is . . . a free elf.'

'Why did you bring me here, Dobby?'

'Dobby knows of Harry Potter and the Durzies and wants to help. Is Harry Potter hungry?'

'A bit?' Dobby got to his feet and snapped his fingers. The cloth that had covered a small oval table and its associated chairs vanished. Another snap and food appeared. A plate of roast chicken, vegetables and gravy along with a single place setting, a jug of water and a lit candelabra. 'Won't you be joining me?' asked Harry. Another setting appeared and they sat down to eat. Nothing more was said until they had both finished and the dishes vanished. 'What is this place, Dobby?'

'This is Malfoy Manor. Malfoys are dark wizards and witches so Harry Potter must hide but Malfoy Manor is very large so this is not being a problem. Unless Dobby did wrong? Unless Harry Potter sir wants to go back to the Durzies?'

'No!' said Harry. 'Definitely not.'

'Dobby is thinking that Harry Potter should sleep and we can be discussing things in the morning.'

'Where?'

'Dobby will fix.'

A click and all of the dust sheets had vanished. Dobby started opening wardrobes. Most, Harry realised were considerably larger inside than out. Some held . . . he wasn't sure if those were clothes or curtains. One held fur coats. Oddly, he could hear a something like wind through a forest and the sound of pan pipes. A few snowflakes drifted out. 'Not that one,' said Dobby, shuddering and shutting the door rather harder than usual. Eventually he found something he liked. A comparatively small closet in a pale, gold coloured wood with carved trees with golden leaves on either side of a mirrored door. Inside, it was a bit bigger than the Dursleys master bedroom. 'Scrying mirror for light,' said Dobby as a large circular mirror appeared on one wall. 'Show lake from opposite from house direction.' Now the mirror held a lake reflecting the last of the sun. Beyond it were trees, their tops moving gently and a manor house. A bed and bedding were similarly procured then a desk and chair and finally a bookcase.

'Erm . . . Dobby, I need to go.' Something like a massively oversized teacup was handed to him and Harry blushed scarlet.

'Disappears everything, cleans bum and hides under bed when not in use,' said Dobby. Dobby can get a proper one but it will take time.'

'No,' said Harry, who didn't want to go anymore. 'Really. This is fine.'

A click and green silk pyjamas and a grey, fluffy dressing gown were laid out neatly on the bed.

'These were belonging to young master Draco Malfoy but he is having new ones.'

'Master?'

'Dobby has no master. He is a free elf.' A mordant smile. 'Malfoys is not knowing this.'

And now Harry had to ask. 'What happened to you? Why were you injured?'

'Dobby was punished cruelly when he was a slave.'

'How did it happen? Your being free I mean. If you don't mind telling me.'

'It was . . . wonderful. Harry Potter tricked bad old master into freeing Dobby.'

'What?!'

The elf smiled up at him. 'Dobby is thinking that this is a long story and we should be sitting down.'


	4. witch

Hermione Granger was used to strange things happening around her. The odd little creature that had turned up in the library was unusual but not threatening. Being told that she was a witch she was prepared to take under advisement. The offer of free books was something else entirely.

Her parents took the practical route, choosing simply to integrate the new information into how to do the best for their baby girl. They too were avid readers. Several tomes from the Malfoy library later, they were prepared to take even drastic action.

The charity shop hated it when people just dumped donations outside but the cabinet was rather nice, in an arts and crafts sort of way, so they put it in the window and sold it five minutes after opening. Later that day, it was delivered to its new owners and put into the guestroom. The young witch rather liked the new acquisition. As the delivery people made their way back downstairs, she ran her fingers over intricately carved Celtic knotwork and waited. After a while there came a soft knocking from within. She opened the door. 'Are you Harry?'

Of course, it had to be Harry but the round framed glasses mended with Sellotape and worn, oversized muggle clothes were unexpected. 'Dad's just finishing cooking spaghetti,' she told him brightly. 'Do you want some? Dobby too, of course.'

Her parents made no reaction to Harry's shabby appearance. The children had a lovely afternoon watching videos and talking about real magic and other things. She had a friend. She had an actual friend. Two if she counted Dobby, although he was a grown up. Meanwhile her parents and Dobby schemed.

After Harry had gone back to wherever Dobby was hiding him, Hermione sat down at the kitchen table with her parents. 'We're not rushing into things,' said her dad. 'We don't even know for sure yet if it's possible.'

Her mum put her arm around her. 'Hermione, how would you feel if we were to try to adopt Harry?'

Too old to be bursting into tears, she tried to think things through sensibly before deciding that sometimes you had to trust your instincts. 'Yes, please,' she said.


	5. lion

Rufus Scrimgeour disliked being bearded in his den, especially by the likes of Albus too many names and titles Dumbledore. Right now, he was being pressed to take a team into Malfoy Manor in search of something the Supreme Mugwump declined to specify but that was extremely important for reasons he was not prepared to discuss. Oh and, take Alistair Moody with him.

He'd rather take moonstruck werewolves and exploding cauldrons. Moody managed to combine the worst aspects of both with a low down cunning and acute paranoia. Malfoy was Malfoy and Rufus enjoyed his current occupation. Mostly. At least he hoped that he was achieving something useful, which wouldn't be the case if he was censured and forced to resign which was what he expected would happen if he agreed.

'Harry Potter has gone missing from his home. Indications are that he is in that house.'

And hadn't that hurt? Actually being forced, for once, to cough up information? He'd been almost inclined to smile until what Dumbledore had said registered. 'What indications?' He was handed an annotated map. 'You do know that Blood magic is strictly illegal?'

'Permitted in cases in involving the National Interest where permission has been given.'

'And who decides that? You, I suppose?'

'Yes.'

'And if this goes to hell, in the National Interest, you'll have nothing to say about it, will you?'

'I find myself in the unfortunate position of dining with tigers,' explained Dumbledore. 'Rarely do I achieve much but I deny power to certain others. If I go down, those who replace me will have only their own interests in mind.'

'How, exactly, did you come to be in this mess?' Scrimgeour couldn't help but ask.

'Little by little. In retrospect I should have been more ruthless.'

'You don't say. Where's Moody?'

'Waiting for the go ahead.'

Fourteen hours later, he knew it had been a mistake. They had searched the house and grounds and found nothing more than a few books and paintings of dubious provenance and a cursed knife that wouldn't get Malfoy so much as a slap on the wrist. He was gloomily considered the relative merits of joining a monastery and applying for the DADA position at Hogwarts when a house elf in a balaclava tugged at his cloak and pointed at the floor. 'What?' he said.

The elf gestured more urgently. Scrimgeour got down onto one knee. 'Are you saying there's something under here?'

The elf nodded rapidly and vanished. Scrimgeour called his team together. 'Alright, boys and girls. One more place to look.'


	6. interview

The Grangers couldn't just take Harry. Over the previous month, they had been in more local government offices at six o'clock in the morning than they had known existed. Officially, the offices had been closed. Several times Dobby had to pop them away ahead of people who would have called the police. The Dursleys had never wanted Harry. They had been careful never to sign anything that might impede his removal from their home. The case of Harry Potter had stalled and, courtesy of Albus Dumbledore, gone overlooked for years. Dobby had shown them where a very simple spell ensured that those dealing with the files never actually did anything. Any new files, coming under the aegis of the old, would similarly disregarded. Fortunately, Dobby's own presence negated it. When, finally, the paper trail was complete, that just left whichever poor soul was chosen to try and make sense of things and sign off on the adoption.

* * *

The social worker assigned to the case had arrived and been shown to the sitting room by a Mrs Smith who, apparently, covered the cleaning and much else and offered tea. She had refused it in favour of waiting for the arrival of her clients. In the thirty-five minutes she had been sitting there, catching up with the backlog, annoyance had built. Finally, she heard a car pull up outside, the front door opening and children's feet running up the stairs.

'I am so sorry. My husband is sorting out the children and will bring us some tea in a minute.' The woman who had just entered was, according to the records, a maxillofacial surgeon. A dentist, pleasant looking and professional.

'You are rather late,' she replied mildly.

'Emergency. Child came off her bike. Ran into a broken railing. It was . . .best dealt with as soon as possible. Your people said for some reason they couldn't reach you. I'd have used the landline but, well. You might have noticed half the street is up? What can we do to get things back on track?'

She opened the file. ' I understand that you were cleared for adoption some years ago?'

'Yes. Before the miracle that was Hermione. We had hoped we might be lucky again but it never happened.'

Mr. Granger bustled in with a tray. When the tea fuss was over, she asked him: 'How does Hermione feel about Harry?

The man smiled. 'He's her best friend. As a child, she's quite mature. You've seen her school records? She knows a puppy isn't just for Christmas. Harry coming to live with us with us: that's forever and, sometimes, we'll put him first.'

'I see. Did you know Harry's parents?'

'No,' said the woman. 'I'm sorry.'

'How did you come to meet him?'

'He was on a school trip to the British Museum. His cousin locked him in a cupboard. We found him.'

She had been unable to come up with a better way to broach this. 'His mother, Lily Evens,' she began. 'There are sometimes gaps in the files but hers are pretty much all gap. We have her passing her eleven plus and being offered a place at the local grammar, which she didn't accept, and passing her driving test aged eighteen and little else. There is no record of where she went to school and no indication of her having left the country. We can find nothing at all for the father - a James Fleamont Potter. We have a marriage certificate. There's a birth certificate but no hospital records. There's a death certificate but no record of burial. For all intents and purposes, all three certificates seem to have come out of thin air. We have no record of Harry's placement with the Dursleys and would certainly not have placed him there ourselves.'

Doctor Granger sighed and leaned forward, 'Ms. Carpenter,' she began, confidentially, 'You have every right to be wondering what's going on and there isn't much I can tell you except . . . Someone high up decided Harry would stay with his aunt and then took steps. Went a bit _ultra vires_ if truth be told. There is a reason for the state of the files but I honestly don't think there's much that can be done about it.'

She had been a social worker for a while and was used to being lied to. This sounded like fantasy and yet things were definitely off; from normally competent authorities suddenly being not so to, on the day that she had decided to actually visit the Dursleys, her car being clamped by mistake.

The children had come into the room and settled themselves opposite her. The girl's most outstanding features were her wild, abundant hair and preternaturally intelligent eyes. The boy had less hair and such startlingly green eyes that it was a moment before she noticed the scar. Physically they were unalike and yet there was a resemblance. It might have had to do with the way that they were holding hands and gazing at her so very calmly, as though they knew something that she did not, but they put her in mind of something by John Wyndham.

She took another sip of her tea. Really, she had no reason to believe that the boy would not do well here. The children smiled.

* * *

I know little about Social Work and nothing of procedures relevant to adoption so I have given the character insufficient time to do her job and, yes, there's something in the tea. She is able to work because she's far enough away from where the files are currently being kept in Surrey.

I hated that business with Ron and the driving test.


	7. pit

Broderick Bode could not decide whether the pit below the Malfoy's blue drawing room swallowed light or gathered darkness. More light trained into it only served to create ever deeper shadows. He really did not want to go down there. Not for the first time, he was inclined to regret his choices in life, not least his choice of career.

He had been so very proud of having become an unspeakable. Not that he could tell anyone, of course. According to the Ministry, he worked in 'Maintenance.'

After Hogwarts, where he had been forced to explain _everything_ just in order to be understood, he had hoped to encounter likeminded souls in the Department of Mysteries. His colleagues were bright enough, certainly, but each and every one of them was fifty shades of weird. And so, he had got involved with Dumbledore's little crew, only to discover that they were just plain crazy.

Dumbledore himself, he had thought sane; only pretending to be crazy to ease the very natural fear felt by the magical in the face of that level of power. Now he was unsure if he wasn't crazy pretending to be sane pretending to be crazy, or some iteration thereof. The old man had more faces than a pack of cards. Possibly one with extra Aces. Tied down by three important full-time positions, he shouldn't have had time to get into trouble. The bastard made time.

The entrance to the steps had been discovered behind a display cabinet which, in that it wasn't a bookcase, for the Malfoys verged upon progressive.

'Perhaps if I stay up here and check things as you bring them out?' His own voice sounded thin. Moody clapped him on the shoulder and clumped off down the stairs. By the time they broke for tea he had destroyed quite a number of interesting and valuable items. Bode was still not going down there.

Bad enough were the things they were bringing up.

Bode didn't like the vase that vitrified anything it touched. Even if glass mice were cute, their ability to revive and, still in their glassy state, run off and spread the contagion wasn't.

A levitation charm brought something hideous up through the hole in the floor. Bode didn't like cuckoo clocks anyway. The one was over large, intricately carved and approaching the hour. 'Watch out,' he said as the little doors opened. The carved bird sprang out. Moody shot it.

'Dammit Moody,' someone complained. It's a cuckoo clock – an offence against good taste . . . he trailed off. The bird had bounced off the floor and onto Moody's leg to which it was clinging. It was also pecking a hole.

Meanwhile a portrait, function unknown, rising from the pit was horrible in its own right.

Bode decided to investigate the books. Generally, he loved books. He did not love the ones from the pit. As they were being packed into boxes a slender volume fell free. He levitated it onto a small table. 'Muggle,' he pronounced. 'Winstanley's Bookstore & Stationers. Address on the Vauxhall Road. Name in gold: T. M. Riddle. Negligently, he dropped it into the box.

'What's funny?' asked Moody, the bird still pecking diligently.

'Nothing really. I remember polishing his award for 'Special Services' at Hogwarts. Odd name though.'

'How so?'

'Tom. Not Thomas. Marvolo is old blood. Riddle isn't.'

'You feeling ok, Bode?

'An anagram of Tom Marvolo Riddle is "I am Lord Vol . . .'


	8. roses

'Oh, how lovely!' was Dolores first thought as she paused on the threshold of her office, the large and gilded anteroom to the suite of staterooms belonging to the Minister of Magic. There, reposed upon a corner of her previously clear desk, was a large pot of roses, and not just any roses – she recognised them immediately – Morphean Roses: this season's fascination.

Without even noticing it, she had crossed the room and bent to breath in their glorious scent. They were the most exquisite shades of pink she had ever seen, contrasting with the bright green of the serrated leaves and the darker green of the viny underplanting that served to hide the soil and provide balance and contrast to the stiff stems of the flowers. Graceful tendrils swayed and twisted enticingly in a manner that teased at her memory. It would come to her. But who, she asked herself, could have sent them? The card, attached with golden thread to a branch, had on the outside gambolling kittens and, on the inside, in immaculate copperplate, the words: 'For the Office of the Minister, a small token of appreciation.'

Well, wasn't that nice, she thought. It was just so nice to be appreciated for once. So very few people actually valued what she did both for the Minister and for the Public at Large. While Dolores knew of several ladies who had a Morphean rose, she had not aspired to such. Even should she have chosen to afford it on her not inconsiderable salary as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, money alone wouldn't be enough. And not just one but three plants, ranged in an elegantly fluted, pearlescent container. Here, on her desk, everyone could see this mark of her true worth.

Again, she pondered the identity of the donor. Many people owed her, of course, for access or for covering over teeny tiny mistakes that might later prove problematic in a career at the Ministry. Young Miss Mogg, for example. Although, as Dolores had used the event as an excuse to be rid of a mudblood, she'd have done it anyway.

Not Miss Mogg, she decided, after a moment's thought. The girl had insufficient influence to obtain such a gift or she wouldn't have been in trouble in the first place and anyway, being a bit of a twit, probably hadn't even realised yet that a gift was in order. She sat down. Already her mind felt clearer and calmer and, of course, she would sleep much better tonight: the famous gift of the roses.

Her brow creased. 'The Office of the Minister'. That was her, of course, but what if Cornelius thought otherwise? He was a dear boy but a fool for a pretty face and some witches would take advantage and then become resentful when they didn't get what they thought was their due. Somehow, it was always Dolores who had to deal with letting people go when they became more of a nuisance than they were worth. And it would be just like Cornelius to take the roses to give to such a witch, or even to his wife who certainly wouldn't be able to properly appreciate them. Finally, it came to her – Flitterbloom: that's what the green stuff was. Her fingers sought the gift card. One of the kittens had stopped playing. Sitting down, it winked at her. Of course, the roses were for her; for whom else could they be? It would, however, be simpler to avoid complications. Much better to call her elf and have them collected immediately.

She had just the place.


	9. politics

Horcruxes . . . or should that be horcruces?

Or something else entirely? Cornelius took another pull at the brandy.

Dammit there wasn't a correct plural. There wasn't a correct singular for something like that. And he shouldn't be halfway down the bottle at this hour. 'Lucius,' he mourned. He had actually liked the wizard, enjoyed his company, and all the while he'd had _that_ under the drawing room floor. A shudder ran through the solid frame of the Minister of Magic. Lucius Malfoy had lied. No question about it. The Department of Mysteries had asked, and they'd used Veritaserum. Lucius had deceived him, and Cornelius couldn't help but feel betrayed. Very carefully, he topped up his glass. It wasn't as if he could afford to buy the stuff. Not regularly. He really ought to sip it. On the other hand, he should perhaps be sipping it fast while giving some thought to all the other little gifts Lucius had provided. How long before the Unspeakables decided that they wanted a word with him?

Sighing heavily, Cornelius set down the bottle on the small area of desk unoccupied by mail. Honestly, he'd left for one minute to use the loo and, when he'd come back, he'd found that some dunderhead had simply come in and dumped everything. And where the hell was Dolores, this morning, anyway? Normally, she'd have dealt with this. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times that she'd been late, and she hadn't even sent in a note.

Grace, he reminded himself, taking a deep breath. Grace Under Pressure. He could do this. Getting up from his desk, he used his wand to open the door and then, very carefully, levitated the mail through and onto Dolores (rather smaller) desk. A brief, papery cascade ensued but was soon dealt with. There, thought, Cornelius, with a feeling of accomplishment, all ready for her when she does come in. Never let it be said that Cornelius Fudge was not a thoughtful and considerate boss.

Returning to his own now clear desk, he discovered he'd missed something. On his seat lay a squarish, cream envelope. He picked it up. High-quality linen-based paper. Cornelius approved. Just the thing, if people really wanted attention. It showed they cared. And it was the sort of envelope in which invitations were commonly sent. He sat down. Well, it wouldn't hurt to open it. The drawer slid smoothly to reveal a miniature golden sword which he inserted into the envelope. It gave way with a satisfying rrrip to reveal a single, stiff sheet of card. At first glance it certainly looked an invitation, but it wasn't one. Not exactly.

'Dear Cornelius,' he read, 'given recent events, I hope that you will find useful the following pertinent information and some suggestions. Due to an oversight on the part of the previous administration, Sirius Black never actually received a trial. Perhaps now might be a good time. Further, it might be for the best were Lucius Malfoy to be remanded to Saint Mungo's for assessment following on from exposure to Dark Magic.'

'Where he would be unavailable for trial,' was only implied. For a moment Cornelius was inclined to wonder if this was what it felt like to be struck by lightning. Surely, it couldn't be as simple as that?

There hadn't been a public trial for Black. He'd remember if there had. It took him less than two minutes to discover that there hadn't been a secret one either, most of that spent in trying to remember what he'd used as a password.

Cornelius emptied the last of the brandy into his glass.

Free and clear, or as good as. Bagnold's lot had messed up. However guilty Black might have been, they had incarcerated him without trial. If they could do something so egregious, it was scarcely surprising that they had failed to investigate Lucius Malfoy. And if he, as Minister, could not rely on the due diligence of the previous administration, who could? Forget the Fog of War. Very shortly there would be so much muck flying about, just about anything might be possible. He didn't think Lucius was going to be able to wriggle his way out of this one, but Saint Mungo's was definitely better than Azkaban and after that, who knew? Lucius might even decide to make himself useful. He had lost one of You-Know-Who's horcrux. . . atrocities, after all.

Cornelius picked up the 'invitation' which, he discovered, bore faintly the scent of roses. It was signed 'A friend.'

Who then?

Who?

Who would know that Black had not had a trial?

Gringotts, of course . . .

Narcissa Malfoy. The mother of the (presumed) Black family heir.

The forthcoming trial couldn't fail but to muddy the family name. Scarcely surprising that she had said nothing until now. But when that information might help Lucius, if not gain his freedom, at least avoid Azkaban, he could see that she might choose to reveal it. A wife would do a great many things to protect her husband.

While he would never be so indiscreet to mention it, of course, he was willing to do her this small service. Lucius would go to Saint Mungo's. Narcissa was a truly beautiful witch. Such rare breeding, grace and resolution. During her husband's incarceration, it would be his honour to remain her friend. Cornelius tipped his glass to a lady.

Right now, he should be having several words with Amelia Bones and there was no time to be wasted. He would go to her. Pausing in the ante room to cast a breath freshening charm, he noted that Dolores still wasn't in.

It really wasn't like her.

Perhaps he should mention it?

* * *

Halfway through the latest chapter of 'Adventure with Aurors' my computer died.


	10. morning

Tweedle-tweedle-tweedle-twee-twee-splatt! Carefully tucking her wand away, the witch raised a hand to her aching head. Bloody birds! she raged. What were they even for? It would be safe to say that Narcissa Malfoy had never been a "morning person". There was just something about the whole bloody, pink-and-gold-skied, mist-on-the-meadows, jolly smugness of it all that got to her; a tendency only augmented by recent events and lack of sleep. Then, finally, as the sun had come up, she had remembered the roses. Morphean roses. A birthday present from Lucius.

Allegedly.

If they had truly been intended for her, surely they would have been in the rose garden under her window, where she could actually benefit from their famed soothing scents. Or even in pots along her balcony. Not in the middle of the bloody pavilion. A pavilion conveniently located, via a series of meandering paths made to accentuate various "vistas", away towards the furthest edge of rather extensive formal gardens. And, incidentally, replacing the quite lovely fountain that she had personally bought and brought back from Rome and which had since disappeared with no satisfactory explanation. She did not dare apparate. Not feeling as she did and with every spell coming out of her wand obliterating things. Sod it all. She was taking a short cut through the maze. It would grow back.

Or it would not.

As she approached the tall ranks of hedges, she was not particularly surprised to see them edging carefully out of her way. Of course they bloody did, she concluded, wearily She held the wards of the manor. Lucius and his "superior spatial awareness" be damned. She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that her husband wasn't all that bright. A horcrux under the drawing room floor? And not just any drawing room either: one of hers; dammit. And, despite this, he had already sent her a list of instructions with a view to getting him released from Saint Mungo's. That was _so_ not going to happen. She had already received an exceedingly vexatious visitation from Call-me-Cornelius Fudge. 'Know that I am here for you, Dear Lady,' he had murmured, her hand clamped between his clammy ones. And then the parting pat, just a little low, on the back. Not that she couldn't get Lucius out, of course, even without the Minister's assistance. She had been born and raised a Black. But no. Her beloved husband had hidden a horcrux under _her_ blue, drawing room floor. He would remain in Saint Mungo's. She had a child to consider.

Narcissa emerged from the cool, green shadows of the maze, only to be struck full in the face by early morning sunlight ricocheting off the surface of the reflecting pool that surrounded the pavilion. She winced, pulled her hat down further over her face and struggled on, across the lawn, over a bridge and under an archway only to stop, in her tracks, at sight of something she had neither expected nor wanted to see: to wit, one small, green backside, bobbing about in the central flowerbed while its owner patted soil into place around the base of one of her Morphean roses. Two more of them, she noted, were lying, bare rooted, on the ground behind it. Questions first, she reminded herself. Questions FIRST. Questions after generally did not work so well. The elf became aware of her presence and spun round, attempting to hide the trowel behind his back, glanced off to each side, met her eyes and vanished.

Dobby.

Of course. It would be him.

She might have guessed that something was off with Lucius just from the way his elf was. What on earth had the insane little beast thought he was doing with her roses? She took off her hat. Merlin, she was tired. Tea just wasn't going to cut it and only a lush drank before lunchtime. Or so Lucius had decreed, because, of course, Coffee cognac was not drinking. Unfortunately, except for occasionally after dinner, Narcissa didn't care for coffee. It had an unpleasant tendency to wake her up. All she wanted to do, right now, was sleep. Oh, well. Duty first. 'Dobby,' she said.

The elf reappeared with a knife. And an odd sort of smile. Also, a small table and a jug with ice and herbs in it, along with a bowl of oranges. She became aware that something had appeared behind her. Half turning, Narcissa discovered, very much to her surprise, an old friend. Yes, it _really_ was: the old sofa which, upon marriage, she had brought with her from her childhood home. It had disappeared, probably for the crime of being "unsightly", during the mess that had been the birth of her son. At the time, she had been too disappointed and too tired to fight. Knees collapsing beneath her, she sank down onto it. When she opened her eyes, Dobby was topping off freshly squeezed orange juice with what looked like one of Lucius' more expensive bottles of Champaign. There was a tall chilled glass with condensation beginning to mist its surface. Dobby filled it from the jug.

Fruit cup, thought Narcissa, resting rapidly emptied, chilled glass against her face. Now why hadn't that ever occurred to her. Bless the elf's little, green bahookie. Fruit cup. Feeling infinitely better, she set down the glass. Dobby refilled it and got back to the gardening. He replanted the remaining roses and summoned a small cloud to rain gently upon them. Under the sweet shade of it, as a blissful wave of scent swept over her, she sank into the faded yellow cushions of the most comfortable piece of furniture on all of any god's green earth.

Quietly, the elf walked to her side and waited for further instruction. Reluctantly, she roused herself. 'Dobby,' she asked, 'what were you doing with my roses?'

'Dobby is putting them back. Now that nasty, sticky fingered ministry types is gone away.'

Narcissa considered that. The ministry types had indeed managed to confiscate and/or destroy quite a number of valuable objects. 'Makes sense, I suppose,' she conceded.

'Of course. Master is not here.'

'What?'

'Master is not wanting to do what master promised to do,' explained Dobby, standing on one foot and then the other. 'Or has promised to do different things. Magic is being . . . all confused.'

She stared at him. It was, of course, impossible for an elf to lie to its owner. But if what the elf had reported was true . . .

Lucius could never again be entrusted with any sort of power. At least, not until they were entirely convinced of the Dark Lord's demise. Perhaps not even then. Merlin! As soon as she could think straight, she would need to make an appointment with Gringotts's Bank. She had _warned_ Lucius not to annoy the goblins. At least this particular failure to listen would, probably, work in her favour. Or, at any rate, against his current desires. With the arms of Morpheus beckoning, another thought drifted across her mind. 'Don't let the gardening elves catch you, Dobby' she murmured as she laid herself down. Whilst she enjoyed murder and mayhem as much as the next witch, never before eleven.

From seemingly far away, she heard the confusing elf's assurance. 'Dobby is not getting caught.'


	11. evening

'Mrs. Malone? Remus Lupin banged gently on the door. 'Mrs. Malone?'

No reply but the door opened when he twisted the handle. 'Mrs. Malone,' he said, walking into the old, beautifully proportioned room that comprised most of the ground floor flat.

'It's Molly, dear.' Blinking, the old lady looked up from her comfy chair.

'You left the door unlocked. Again.'

'Did I? Well. What self-respecting burglar would bother themselves with my old tat.'

'Molly.'

'Make us some tea, would you? Doesn't turn out the same when I make it.'

Hardly surprising. Molly's herbal tea was half-way to being a potion in its own right and having an actual wizard to make it never hurt. 'I'll put your stuff away, shall I?' he asked her.

'Such a good lad,' murmured Molly, as he stashed the groceries he'd brought her. Carefully, he arranged three digestive biscuits on a bone china plate along with half a peeled mandarin orange. The old woman never ate enough. The trick was not to put too much on the plate. A single wrapped chocolate from Honeyduke's joined them. Hot water went into the pot to warm it. 'I've just remembered,' said Molly. 'You've got a visitor.'

'Oh?' Tea leaves. Hot water. Lid. Tea cosy.

'Yes. Nice little fellow. Helpful. I might have taken a bit of a tumble otherwise.'

'Molly, tell me you weren't on the stairs again?'

'This is my house. Of course I want to know what's going on. If my guests are happy.'

'Molly . . .' Remus Lupin took a deep breath and found a suitable argument. 'Didn't you promise that nice Doctor Cohen you'd stay off the stairs?'

'I'm not that old.'

He took the tray through from the kitchenette and set it on a small table beside her. 'Molly,' he told her, 'you're immortal. You're also ninety-three.'

'Ying tong yiddle I po,' said his landlady and smiled with her too-perfect, National Health Service, false teeth.

He'd not the faintest idea what she meant by that. Pouring the tea, he queried: 'a visitor?'

'Yes. Said they'd let themself in. Is that a toffee?'

'Caramel.'

'I like toffees.'

'Name one chocolate you don't like.'

'Hmm,' said Molly, biting into it. Remus smiled and turned. 'You do seem to know the most interesting people,' said Molly, from behind his back. Old as she was, she was still as sharp as a tack.

'I haven't given anyone a key,' he told her. 'Some of my students are . . . resourceful.' And some, through no fault of their own, needed additional support. And it wouldn't be the first time one of them had chosen to take refuge with their tutor. He turned back to explain.

'You do what you can,' the old woman reminded him, sipping her tea.

Remus Lupin, wizard and werewolf, wondered how anyone, magical or otherwise, could consider themselves superior to someone with such a will to kindness.

'On you go,' said Molly.

Crossing the hallway, he let himself in through his own, locked, front door to discover a small person, sitting at his table, wearing a balaclava. He was surprised that the television that comprised the introduction to the course that, in his own head, he called "Muggles are not muddy peasants 101" was still switched off. By the time his magic-side clients found him, they had usually managed to lose most of the baggage but sometimes it helped. It was also an expected item in an apparently muggle home. His guest hadn't bothered with it. A pile of children's books had been more interesting. 'Is Muggles really eating green eggs and ham?' he was asked, which confirmed his suspicion.

What he'd first thought was a child with bunches was, in fact, a house elf wearing a balaclava. His wand dropped into his hand. 'No,' he replied. 'It sounds odd so that he has a good reason to refuse to eat it. It's meant to be funny. To help children remember when they're learning to read. If eggs and ham were green, they probably wouldn't be very healthy. Can I help you?'

A long pause while his uninvited guest considered him. 'This elf thinks so, yes.'

'Oh?'

'This elf is here to ask Remus Lupin, Mister Moony, sir to dinner. Family is having all of Harry Potter's favourite Chinese foods. Plus, an extra big dish of beef chow mein.

It was suddenly hard to breathe. 'Harry,' he said. Harry was the important thing. 'You know where he is?'

'Elf couldn't be taking mister Moony to dinner with him if he didn't. But first, mister Moony must be promising to keep Mister Harry Potter's secrets.'

He wouldn't be able to tell Dumbledore.

On the other hand, Dumbledore had already managed to lose the child, despite having sworn that he was safe, and perhaps, if the situation were bad, he could extract Harry without telling anyone anything. 'I swear to keep Harry Potter's secrets,' he said. The elf got up. Slender fingers wrapped around his own and then he was in what looked like a study. A man and a woman sat facing one another across a partners' desk. To one side, a girl and boy looked up from where they had been reading on the sofa. The boy was James. So much like James, there could be no doubt as to who his father was. Or, from that green, his mother.

.

There was a hand on the back of his neck. 'Head between your knees,' he was told. 'It will help.' When the world stopped swimming, he opened his eyes.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Sorry, I just . . . I tried to find you, Harry. I was warned off by Albus Dumbledore. He said that your safety was paramount. If I was going to persist in endangering you, then it would be better if I forgot all about you.'

The girl came back into the room with a glass of water and handed it to him. He took a sip and then another. 'How are you, Harry?'

'Much better now,' said the boy. 'Professor Dumbledore left me with my aunt Petunia's family. None of them liked me. There was Petunia and Vernon's bedroom, Dudley's bedroom, Dudley's second bedroom for his stuff, the guest bedroom and my cupboard under the stairs.'

'And they had him doing the housework,' the man, still sitting at the desk, confirmed. 'We were in that house. We had difficulty believing . . . Mouth twisting down, he stopped. When he began again, his tone was brighter. 'So, we have adopted him. He's now Harry Granger. No disrespect intended to his parents, just an added layer of security. That's Hermione.' With her halo of hair, Remus decided, the name suited her.

'I think he could do with a hug,' said she and then Remus had his arms full of small boy and he was breathing in 'family'. The parents introduced themselves but he was unable to process it. Finally, the wolf within him that had wanted to die and then to tear up the world, calmed and he was able to let go.

'I will keep your secrets,' he promised. 'I will protect you with my life.'

'That's what we thought,' said the mother, swinging open a glass door leading onto a small, suburban garden.

To one side of the lawn, there was a wooden table with a parasol and benches attached, designed to seat six. He took his place at one end with Harry's adopted sister at the other and Harry himself between them. The parents sat opposite, the elf materialising between them with two plastic bags of takeaway. Plates, cutlery, glasses and a jug of orange juice had also appeared. 'Ah, Dobby was forgetting,' and then he was back with a bottle of wine in either hand.

'Won't someone notice?' asked the father.

'Malfoys not noticing much,' replied the elf. 'Especially now.' Seeing Remus expression, Dobby continued: 'Dobby is free. Malfoys not knowing this.'

'Which allows our friend to use their resources to create havoc,' said the father as the elf, now seated on a cushion, got stuck into the food.

'You don't have to eat the beef chow mein.' The male muggle was putting some of everything onto his plate. 'There are plenty of other things.'

'Beef chow mein?' queried Remus, mystified.

'Song by Warren Zevon. "Werewolves of London".'

'Actually,' said the mother, 'I thought it was about bankers. "The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street" is another name for the Bank of England.'

'Wouldn't that give werewolves a bad name,' asked the father.

'Pardon?' said Remus.

A soft chuckle from the mother. 'Couldn't possibly be worse than dentists.'

'Feed me now,' said Harry.

* * *

Lyrics from 'The Ying Tong Song' by the Goons, 'Werewolves of London' by Warren Zevon and 'Feed me, Seymour' from 'Little Shop of Horrors'.


End file.
